Pop Goes the Weasel
by AnnieMonroe
Summary: Sweet Little Vicky lives the american dream. But after she drops out of her ballet career and her parents are killed by some mysterious physco killer, things just go from bad to incredably worse.


First fanfic .

This is something i wrote a year ago for some weird english assignment. Its a one shot and very badly written. I'll re-write when i get the chance (:

Review yeah?

xxxx

She steps on to the pavement; looks left then right; attempts to take another step, stumbles.

Her wide tired eyes flicker upward but she panics in the bright streetlamp's light and falls forward.

"Oh God…" she moans.

Sweet Lil' Vicky: the nine-year-old queen of ballet; on the pavement; dirty and drunk. Of course, that was all five years ago. Sweet Lil' Vicky was all big now. Fourteen. Whoopdidoodah. Sometimes she felt she was more like forty-five…

The pavement was damp from the rain so she hurriedly turned over and sat up, swearing as the blood rushed around her head. Her hand settled on a newspaper and her eyes automatically focused on it.

A picture showed a young blonde girl smiling away as if her next smiles were all permanently banned. But the headline stabbed her right through the heart: "Wasted Youth." An opinion was pushed forward from her subconscious mind.

"Go to hell."

The rain hammered down and soon the tight revealing dress turned see-through and a little more than cleavage was on show…

The drab atmosphere surrounded her, clawing any possible spirited she had left.

"Everything's okay," she murmured determinedly "I've got something that'll sort everything all out…"

Her cold shaking hands reached out for her handbag and she clumsily unzipped it. Sitting up with her back against a phone box, her fingers closed around a lighter in the bag. Fiddling around, she soon found a roll up, slightly squashed, but perfectly smokable.

She lit it, and took a deep shuddering drag.

She sighed. "That's the stuff."

So she was on drugs. It didn't bother her in the slightest. After her pregnancy at the age of twelve, there didn't seem much else to live for. Sure, her kid was sweet enough. Long curly blonde hair, big blue staring eyes. Sweet. Sometimes sickly. Even so, despite some type of love for him, she found herself wishing that kid hadn't gone and walked into her life. Dragged down into the pits of families.

Walking home (even though it was more like a wild run) she found herself thinking more and more about these things. Then she finally thought about her parents. They died just after she'd hit the big time with ballet. It was some sort of mysterious stabbing, once through the heart, twice through the stomach, and three times down the right arm. Both parents had identical wounds, right down to the scratch on their big toe. Strangely, the killer had decided to gouge out their eyes and take them away as a souvenir. No fingerprints and no evidence. A completely clean job. Which meant no suspects.  
After the funeral, her new social worker came along and found a few couples willing to take her in and adopt her. A few? It was more like a mile line. Each time it was the same smiley good couple type from adverts who wished not to dirty themselves with the loss of the female's virginity. Sweet Lil' Vicky threw a strop and refused each one. Until the last couple came along…

By this time, her social worker's cheeks were burning from her strained smiles and her eyes were starting to smart and water from staring at the computer screen for too long.

But Vicky suddenly took a liking to the last couple. The woman had glamorous bleached hair and wore a lot of jewellery. The man dressed in a snazzy suit, designed to impress. They were introduced as Cynthia and Matt. They smiled at her and she batted her eyelids in return.

After the forms were filled out, and legal requirements sorted, Sweet Lil' Vicky moved in. She still twirled in ballet, and although her new father was permanently away with work, she was never upset.

Cynthia was very appreciative of her and when she hit eleven, she finally told her everything."You're a big girl now." She smiled. "We never spent your inheritance or a lot of the money you earned yourself. We want to give it to you a few years behind schedule…"

Later on in life, she wondered how she had actually received the inheritance when children could only get it when they were eighteen. But Cynthia always had a way of influencing people and getting what she wanted. So it made sense really.  
She gave up ballet and went out more. After a while, she was picked up at a bar. Sweet Lil' Vicky was well known around the area, not for ballet, but for what went on behind closed doors. A lot of rumours flew around, and most of them were true.

And then came the pregnancy. As if Cynthia was expecting it, she looked after the poor kid, and let Vicky's boyfriend move in. He was sixteen. She was twelve.

A few days after the birth came the news. Matt had been found dead. A stab in the heart, twice in the stomach and three times down the right arm. The killer decided to form a collection. He took the eyes as well. And yet again, no suspects.  
Cynthia had sat around for days weeping. She was never the same after that. Vicky suspected that the last time she had saw him was about a year ago. And at that point he had stormed out after an argument. She remembered singing 'Pop Goes the Weasel' to her little toddler, in an attempt to calm him down. After that, life went on.

Vicky skidded to a halt outside her home. Smoothing her hair and composing herself, she took out her key and opened the door.

It was three in the morning and the house was completely silent. She creeped upstairs and staggered into the bedroom.

It was a little too silent for her liking. The dark was starting to get to her. Shapes loomed up and attempted to grab her. Wait, that was the dressing table. But it's just so dark, how can you be sure?

Slipping out of the damp dress, she collapsed on the double bed, exhausted. She turned over, expecting her boyfriend to be awake. She'd made quite a bit of noise when it had been so silent. And anyway, it was one of those times when she needed him to be there. For more then one reason…

Sweet Lil' Vicky let out a piercing scream. She ran and checked the other bedrooms. Exactly the same in the kid's.  
As she was about to enter Cynthia's, an arm reached out. You couldn't see the body to which it belonged but there was no need for that. A knife was being shown, the blade moving backwards and forward, the moonlight capturing its gleam. The arm looked strangely familiar.

Then she heard Cynthia's voice: "Please? For the love of God, no! Please, no Vicky!"

The arm moved away and she heard movement across the carpet. Cynthia finally screamed. Then he heard something that chilled her soul.

"Now Vicky. Would you like to dance?"

Her own voice was being used. Thinking it was some sort of sick twisted joke, she turned the light on.

"Vicky…"

An exact double stood next to the remains of Cynthia's body. It started to leer at her.

"Why won't you dance for me?"

Vicky took a step back.

"Now Vicky, don't be frightened. I only want you to dance."

"No thank you." She replied, her voice choked.

"Why, Vicky?"

"I don't dance for freaks."

Anger flashed in the double's eyes. "But if you don't dance, then who will?"

The rain pattered at the window. The double looked around in thought.

"Maybe this will help."

It began to sing.

" One stab in the pumping heart,  
Two stabs in the stomach.  
Three stabs in the right arm,  
Pop! goes the Vicky!"

Tears slid down Vicky's face as she arranged her body into position. She span on one toe…

"Up and down your busy life,  
In and out of your dreams,  
Hear this spirit celebrate,  
Crack! goes the Vicky!

Every year when I go out,  
a knife clasped in one hand,  
A few stab wounds and then I'm done  
Scream! goes the Vicky!

A penny for a good sharp knife,  
Another for my troubles,  
This is your night of death,  
Splat! goes the Vicky!

All around the bloody globe,  
the spirit chased the people.  
She thought it was all quite fun,  
Dead is the Vicky!

One stab in the pumping heart,  
Two stabs in the stomach.  
Three stabs in the right arm,  
DEAD IS THE VICKY!"

It paused as Vicky finished her last jump and stood still.

"All those people," the spirit hissed. "Before they died, they all thought it was you that had killed them. And of course it was. I'm your soul…"

It lunged forward and the knife began to sink into her heart…

The next day, police arrived at the house having recently received an anonymous tip. They found the bodies but no evidence of the murderer. A young girl named Vicky, judging by the nameplate on a bedroom door, had apparently murdered herself. But for some reason, before she died she had chosen to rip out her own eyes and scratch her big toe.

It was some sort of mysterious stabbing, once through the heart, twice through the stomach, and three times down the right arm. They all had identical wounds, right down to the scratch on their big toe. Strangely, the killer had decided to gouge out their eyes and take them away as a souvenir. No fingerprints and no evidence. A completely clean job. Which meant no suspects.

Vicky's body was taken away to be buried at an old graveyard the other side of town.

As the priest spoke of her good life (although he, and all of the attending, knew it had been one hell of a bad life) at the funeral, he paused, but then discovered something very odd.

Looking down at the coffin waiting to be buried by the grave, he asked, "Does anyone else hear that?"

"Yes." Someone replied in the crowd. "Someone's humming -"

" - and that humming's coming from the coffin." The priest finished. That's odd, he thought. No one's been buried alive for years. We don't make that sort of mistake any more…

They all strained to hear the humming.

"You know what that sounds like? You know that old nursery rhyme?"

"Oh yeah…"

"It's 'Pop goes the Weasel.'"


End file.
